Rivals
by meangadh
Summary: Oliver Wood's life is all about Quidditch. And what would Quidditch be without these special opponents? - mild slash!


Hello, hello, hello. The original of this story is in GERMAN, so if anyone wants to see that... yeah, tell me. Also, I cut out a part where Harry is crying 'cause it didn't really matter, it just was there to please a lovely friend of mine.

SO. This is set around 1997, the war ended a few years before, but doesn't play a part in this. It's all about Quidditch.

Thanks to the books we know that Oliver joined the Puddlemere United Reserve Team in 1994, in my imagination he started playing for the first team shortly after that and then transfered to the Montrose Magpies; a Scottish team. I feel pleased to tell you that Sean Biggerstaff made me think of Oliver Wood as Scottish. No chance that's gonna change.

I don't have a beta-reader yet, so yeah, if anyone's interested, I would be delighted.

ANYWAYS.

Pairing: Oliver Wood x Marcus Flint

I don't own them though I wouldn't say no.

Reviews would be lovely & don't take long.

* * *

><p><strong>RIVALS<strong>

Had you watched Oliver Wood during his time at school and asked yourself what his life was all about, you'd get the answer: the Quidditch Cup.

Watching him today, the answer was: the League Cup.

Every evening he had sat in the Common Room, thinking about new tactics, moving little players on the board, depending on which team they would play the next day.

Now he lay in his bed, thinking about the stiles of the different teams, the chasers, their stronger and weaker spots.

Every time the same ritual, but now it was already 3 o'clock in the morning and Oliver was uncomfortably reminded of the evenings, _nights_ in the common room, every time they had to play against... Slytherin the next day.

Tomorrow they wouldn't play any of the _normal_ teams, not one you'd pass after the game, shaking their hands, murmuring "Good game."

Tomorrow they played the _Falcons_ and if there was one team in the whole league that played just as despicable and unfair as Slytherin years ago, it was them. They also had a new chaser, a "new discovery", a "talent not seen for 50 years."

This chaser was neither a new discovery nor a talent. But no matter how often Oliver told his teammates, the answer would just keep on being "We just have to cover him as well as possible."

_And that_, Oliver thought, _was the thing. _Marcus Flint, the _talent_, didn't have a problem with taking out annoying opponents, he had already proved that at school. And if Oliver really thought about it, Marcus fit perfectly with the Falcons. They upheld their reputation perfectly, played disgustingly and brutal, and no one liked having to compete against them.

Except maybe Oliver.

At school it had always been the greatest satisfaction seeing Slytherin lose, against whichever team but preferably against them. And even if he would like to think differently, Flint _wasn't_ a bad strategist, actually, he was a pretty good one. It was unfortunate that these strategies often included violence, but even without this unnecessary brutality, Slytherin would have won many of their games. Oliver shook his head. _That he really admitted that..._

However, why Flint had brought that slimy git Malfoy on board was incomprehensible to him. A terrible seeker only for a few good – okay, _really _good – broomsticks? And he knew that Flint had seen Malfoy's non-existing talent. So why?

Oliver sighed and turned off the lamp beside his bed. It was useless to think about it now. The current Flint, the Flint they had to play against tomorrow, was more important.

And with the thought that Flint preferably threw with his left hand, from an angle that looked impossible, and somehow managed to put it into one of the outer goal posts, he fell asleep.

#

It was a fiasco.

They had seen it coming, somehow, but not believed it. They had believed that all the _titles_ and _trophies_ and whatever the club had won over the years, would help them play against a team that was not exactly known for elegance, _respect_ or fairness. And of course they didn't.

The Montrose Magpies went down.

And as Oliver sat in the locker room, his back against the wall, blowing sweaty hair out of his eyes, carefully folding his robe – a majority of their players had just thrown theirs to the ground, where it lay; a small, black and white pile, frighteningly close to what was left of their self-confidence – he almost wished he'd never come here. That he had stayed with Puddlemere, in the place with this ridiculous name and the even more ridiculous reputation, flying around as a goalkeeper, without any pressure, because after all, they were expected to lose, to finish the league last.

But no. He was goalkeeper at the _best club in the league_ and that should make him proud, but right now he was just ashamed.

"Hey, don't have that look on your face," Maggie Campbell, their seeker, said. She sat down beside him, placing her hand on his shoulder. Actually it was surprising how much strength she had in that hand, judging by her petite figure.

"Mh," Oliver replied. She had not caught the Snitch, he hadn't kept enough Quaffles out, James and Lars hadn't hit the Bludgers properly and Shayna, Jheferson and Rhys hadn't scored enough goals. They had all been disappointing.

"It wasn't your fault, y'know?"

He nodded. _He knew that_. He wouldn't say it though.

"Ye were great today and alone against Flint... ye didn't have a chance to stop him.

He snorted. _Ye didn't have a chance to stop him_. Of course he'd had a chance. Flint was no _talent_, no _star, _ Flint was a brutal wanker.

He stoop up, straightened the black pants, the white shirt, then he shouted: "Now come on! We need to get out there."

Jheferson showed him his favourite finger while telling Lars how unfair Sears had played, a beater of the Falcons.

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Of course they didn't play fair, but we knew that before. To stay here now and simply ignore their victory is just as unsportsmanlike, if not more. What happens on the pitch is one thing, what happens once the game is over, is something different and says a lot more about a team than brutality in the distribution of bludgers-"

"So I was a bludger then?" Jheferson uttered. "Bloody twat!"

"The game's over, Jheferson," Oliver muttered. "It's over. And we lost, they played awful and if we now don't go out there and congratulate them, _that _is what people will remember from this game, not their behaviour. Do you really want that?"

Lars nodded approvingly, but Shayna made the first step, turned around and went onto the pitch. The others followed automatically, Jheferson still muttering insults.

#

The sentiment on the pitch was tense. Oliver led the way as the goalkeeper, shook hands with the other team's keeper, saying "Good game" and meaning it. She had not tried to sweep Jheferson off his broom, she wasn't the reason for the team's reputation. She only was one thing: A good goalkeeper.

Now she smiled, returned the phrase and he went on, shaking hands with the other players, the "good game" only came quietly now. Amazingly, one of them patted him on the back, the beater who had done the most damage, and he said grinning "Respect, mate!"

And then there was Marcus Flint. It almost felt like his hand was being crushed as he squeezed it. "We meet again," he said softly and smiled.

_Smiled_.

"Eh," Oliver said, not accustomed to Flint-

"Good game," Flint said and went on, congratulated Oliver's teammates.

Jheferson was trembling as he stepped into the dressing room. "These scumbags," he whispered. "They act as though they were... Gentlemen."

Oliver automatically had to laugh and the rest of the team joined in.

"Flint wasn't. At least not to me," Rhys said, still grinning. "He said my decision was a very poor one."

Oliver sat down and pulled his shirt over his head. Then he answered: "Well, it indeed is a foolish thing to play at the best club in the league and not for brainless numptys."

Everyone laughed and slowly, the tension vanished, even from Jheferson. The Falmouth Falcons weren't exactly at the top of the league and a defeat ultimately wasn't more than that: a defeat. Unfortunate but unchangeable.

From the corner of his eye he saw Jheferson laughing at a joke James made and if Jheferson was in a good mood again, there really was no reason to think about the game any longer. It really was just unfortunate.

And Flint was no _talent_. He just had a... lucky touch.

#

When he went out in the last sun of the day, freshly showered and with a clear mind, a simple "Oliver" prevented him from going home.

"Hmm?" He turned in the direction the voice had come from.

Flint.

It was strange seeing him again after all those years, not just in the air, but on the ground, in normal clothes, and – above all – with a friendly expression.

At school they had met each other with disgust, particularly evident in the games. Of course Oliver had been inferior to him in the hallways, after all, Flint was a year older than him and much, much stronger, but it hadn't mattered in the air. And every time he parried a shot from him, he felt the _euphoria_ that no other chasers provoked.

Because every time he'd gotten the feeling to have _shown_ it to Flint, to have shown that he _could do it_, that he was a good player.

If he thought about it for a bit, he had actually always waited for Flint to approach him, saying "Ye did well", giving him the recognition he _deserved_, the recognition everyone else game him, even Slytherins – well, maybe Rhys Vaisey didn't really count, no one quite understood why he had been sorted into Slytherin.

"You were good today."

Oliver automatically took a step back.

"What?"

Flint grinned wryly. "You were good. Saved your team from the absolute disgrace."

Oliver thought that the whole thing _had been _ an _absolute disgrace_, that he didn't save anyone, when he realized what Flint had just said. He had complimented him.

"Thanks," he mumbled, avoiding Flint's gaze.

He stepped closer.

"What do ye want?" said Oliver, trying to remember when he had had his last real conversation with Flint. Second grade?

"I just wanna say that... I've lied to ye."

Oliver frowned. "Aha?"

"I always knew that ye're damn good."

A strange feeling began spreading in Oliver, pressing on his stomach. He swallowed.

#

Hardly anyone knew that their families had lived close to each other before they went to Hogwarts. Coincidentally, the two lads had met, and soon discovered a shared passion: Quidditch. Marcus' family had two old brooms and from that day on, they regularly played against each other, even if that meant being a meter above the ground, throwing a ball Oliver's father had given them.

Then Marcus went to Hogwarts, a year before Oliver, who then spent a long, lonely year, and could hardly expect the holiday when they once again "played Quidditch" just like Marcus had never been away. He told Oliver that, disappointingly, first-graders couldn't get into the teams, but he would certainly apply the following year and the year after that Oliver could, too, and then they could win against the other houses together.

Oliver had beamed at the thought.

And then they sat together on the train and Oliver couldn't await the sorting into the houses, still heard his mother's words who had said "We're fine with every house, ye just have to know yer priorities." The eleven-year old Oliver hadn't understood what that meant and when the Sorting Hat sent him to Gryffindor, not Slytherin, where Marcus was, he felt just one thing: disappointment.

His parents sent him an enthusiastic letter, but when he lay in his four-poster bed in the evening and thought that from now on, he definitely had to play against Marcus, it dampened the joy over coming to Hogwarts.

He and Marcus actually didn't have a lot in common, except that they'd grown up together, that they dreamed of a Quidditch career, and so they hardly spoke, now that Oliver was in _Gryffindor_ and Marcus in Slytherin.

But at least he could look forward to the holidays.

So in the summer holidays, he knocked on Marcus' door to play Quidditch again, and a big, brawny man opened the door. He stared disapprovingly at Oliver, then disappeared inside the house. Oliver knew that he didn't like Marcus' father; he scared him.

And then Marcus was standing in front of him, telling him to his face that we would no longer play with him. He was too bad, too young, too silly and _especially_ too gryffindor.

"It's just not possible."

And Oliver had gone home that day, had crept into his bed, crying. When his mother had asked him what was going on, he had merely shaken his head.

And decided he had to show Marcus what he was made of.

He just saw it as the right first step to join the Gryffindor Quidditch team in September. Since that day Marcus was not _Marcus_ anymore, but Flint. Like all the other Slytherins he only referred to him with his last name.

#

"I-," he began, but Flint shook his head.

"Me father told me it'd be a shame," he said. "And I somehow believed it too, in the end. But I shouldn't have said ye weren't good enough, I've always found you brilliant."

Oliver grinned wryly. "Too young? Too silly?"

Flint shrugged. "Had to say anything to make it sound impressive. I mean, I _was _older and you're not silly when you're a Slytherin. Ye laugh at other people's suffering."

"Suffering," Oliver snorted.

"Whatever. That's all, really. I just wanted... well, we're no longer at Hogwarts, we're no longer _Slytherin _and _Gryffindor_ and I actually find that it's time we... oh well... bury the hatchet."

Oliver frowned. _The hatchet_. Surely Flint had looked this up before. "Hm," he said. "I dunno."

Flint cleared his throat. "Okay, fine. So. Most importantly, I wanted to ask ye... well... if ye wanted to go have dinner with me at some point? Talk 'bout the... past."

It was absurd to hear Flint talk like that. As though he was _intelligent_ or _interested_ or anything like that, as though he still had this side Oliver had last seen ten years ago.

"Have dinner," he repeated.

"Aye."

"In what way?"

"Just because..." Flint paused. "You know what? Doesn't matter, so... I'm interested. In you. To put it that way."

He was... _interested_? Oliver almost had to laugh, it felt so weird. He still had this feeling in his stomach, just like before, this pressure, and it was pleasant, in a _weird_ way.

"Mhh," he said.

"Jings!" Flint sneered. "I'm telling ye a thousand things I wouldn't even have sent you via an anonymous Howler during the time at Hogwarts, and ye... do ye really not care? I'm forcing myself to say that... I somehow fancy you and-"

Oliver had approached him and put a hand on his shoulder. Flint fell silent. They were about the same height, Oliver a tiny bit shorter, not much, at most- Whatever.

"Mh," Oliver said again. "Let me think for a bit."

Flint frowned and Oliver saw his eyes dancing, looking down, then he saw him closing them and then-

Oh.

Oliver just stood there, one hand still on Flint's shoulder, and didn't move. He couldn't. He couldn't do anything, actually, he only felt the warm breath on his lips as Flint slowly moved away.

"Hmmm," he said quietly. "Aye, I think so."

"What?" Flint frowned again and Oliver leaned in, kissed him, found it odd that Flint's lips were so _soft_ – he didn't look like he had soft lips, really – and it was pleasant and somehow wrong and felt just right and made his heart pound heavily in his chest.

"Oh," Flint said.

"I'd like to have dinner with you, Flint," Oliver said.

And if he really thought about his life, somehow it had always been about impressing Flint, about getting recognition.

Somehow, it mostly meant to beat him.

"Marcus," Flint said. "You numpty."


End file.
